Remember
by Comatose Overdose
Summary: Every year on January 24 and August 17, Prussia goes to Fritz's grave and plays his favorite flute, thinking back on the years he spent with his favorite king. Implied Fritz/Prussia


Frederick II of the House of Hohenzollern was the only mortal whom Prussia ever loved.

And he has never stopped missing him.

He never will, and he knows this. Twice every year, the albino goes to Frederick's grave and plays the king's favorite flute, the one Fritz himself handed to him to keep just two days before his death. It was a beautiful instrument, one made of ebony, ivory and silver. The Hohenzollern family supposedly owned it, but this was not the case. They owned a replica. Gilbert was the one entrusted with Fritz's most prized possession. He would play it, and the notes would flow forth, warmly and smoothly, just as they had so long ago. He would stand and play and his memories of the best years of his life would wash over him.

He remembered the announcement of the birth of the crown prince on January 24, 1712. He remembered watching as the boy grew up, rebellious and stubborn. He remembered seeing the teenage Frederick once he was back home and out of prison for trying to run away to England with his best friend (that thought hurt. He had wanted to be considered Frederick's best friend). The pale haired teen was the one to console the then crown prince after he watched his best friend be decapitated for treason. He stood by the teen's bed side as he suffered night terrors and hallucinations for the following week. He remembered the coronation, how Fritz had hugged him close, promising to make him stronger than ever before, promising that he would be treated as a king as well. He remembered that day in 1750 when Fritz's flute instructor presented him with that famous flute, the one to be played over his grave centuries later. He would sit by Frederick as he played for four hours everyday, his leader practicing his perfection. He still kicked himself for falling asleep occasionally to the beautiful music, but Frederick had paid it no mind, telling him that he looked very peaceful while asleep. Gilbert had worked so hard lately, he deserved to rest, and he felt honored to be the one to help his beloved country with that. He remembered being kissed on the cheek by Fritz on his birthday and being presented with a cake with his flag on it.

He remembered Fritz aging, becoming older and weaker with every passing moment, and they each went by faster than the previous had. His hero, his idol, his leader, his king, his love, he… was dying. He put up a strong front, but Prussia knew. It was plain for him to see. His king was fading. In the January before Fritz's passing, Gilbert had taken to sleeping in the same bed with him. Had he passed in the middle of the night, Prussia would have been the very first to know, and he could grieve for a while before alerting the others in the palace. Frederick didn't mind, in fact, he had quite enjoyed sharing sleeping space with the one he had known his entire life, the country he had loved so much. But, sharing a bed to sleep in didn't change anything.

On August 17, 1786, Gilbert had gone to get a drink for himself and his king, and when he came back, he discovered Old Man Fritz, Frederick the Great of the House of Hohenzollern, dead in his study chair. He couldn't remember the sound the teacups made as they crashed to the floor, he couldn't remember just how badly his hands were shaking, he didn't even realize he had been crying until much later. All he could see, all he could remember seeing, was Frederick slumped over his desk with his eyes shut, looking as if he was simply taking a nap on his paperwork.

He had cried for a week, locked up in his room, not even eating. He only answered the door when Ludwig knocked.

And now, as he stood under his own colors, tears flowed freely down his face as they had more than two hundred years ago. The notes flowed freely from that famous, beautiful flute, and he couldn't help but think of how something was wrong.

He was no longer a nation. Fritz would hate this.

And Prussia himself was in despair. In 1947, he knew what had been coming. He knew he would be disbanded. And he had expected death. But death never came. He became the personification of East Germany and was placed under the Soviet Union's rule. Decades he waited. Through the Berlin wall and airlift. Through riots and famines, protests… he knew that he would be set free one day, but there would no longer be any land for him at all, and he would finally fade just like his people. But once again, he cheated death.

No. That's not right.

_Death_ cheated _him._

He had waited so _long_. He had lived through Hell and worse, and he no longer had anything to live for, and yet, he still lived.

He wanted nothing more than to fade from this world and stand before those pearly white gates. He wanted to have all of his pain and all of his scars just vanish. And he wanted to be greeted by the man he missed so much. He wanted to see him beckoning him forth with wide open arms and another kiss on the cheek.

And so, he kept waiting, day after day, year after year, until he finally got to see _his _Fritz again. And until then, every year, twice a year, on January 24 and August 17, he would come to this grave, and play that beautiful and famous flute, whose notes flowed warmly, as he waited for his death to come to him, when he would be united with his dear Frederick once more.


End file.
